Random Drabbles
by FantasyAndBrokenDreams
Summary: Just random stuff that pops into my head that I throw down on paper. Usually won't have character names and will be very short. Imagine whoever the heck you'd like as the characters. Knowing me, most will be depressing. Updated whenever I write randomly.
1. Empty Smiles and Broken Laughs

**Random drabble #1, and depressing as promised! Super short, but I wrote it a long time ago. Sorry the sentences are so short, but that's how I wrote it. Guess I'm not very descriptive when I'm sad.**

Empty smiles and broken laughs. That is all I have anymore. Everything is forced now. Hearing them talk, so carefree, makes me fall farther. They tried to include me at first. Now the effort is no use. They worry. I hear them talking about me when they think I'm not listening. They worry.

I tried so hard to keep continuing like nothing was wrong. I kept interacting, keeping up appearances. Eventually, it became too much. I'm so tired. Tired and sick of the world.

Nothing can get me out of this. Nothing makes me feel better.

They don't notice when I leave anymore. I'm invisible when I'm there anyways. The lock makes a satisfying click. Such an unassuming object, a razor is. No one questions why I have it. No one knows what I really do with it.

I pull my sleeve up. I wince. It scratched my open sores. I grip the razor. Smiling, I slice a thin line. Droplets of blood bead at the corners. The pain feels so good. It reminds me that I'm alive. Keeps me from fully sliding into the dark abyss I'm falling into.

I wash off the razor. The bandages go on my arm. I slide my sleeve down. Just in time. There's a knock on the door. I smile and apologize. Suspicious looks follow. But they'll never ask. They don't want to know.


	2. Beautiful Lies

She was a girly-girl as a small child. She took ballet lessons and went to school in cute little dresses. She went to sleepovers and had tea parties with her dolls. As she grew older and her childish innocence diminished, she slowly realized the true state of the world. And that was nothing to be cheery about.

Her mom, who was always so caring, lost her job right after her dad abandoned them. Once a kind woman, she lashed out at the world. After coming home in a state of drunkenness almost every night, she would pick fights with her daughter. At only nine years old, she had to learn to avoid her mother or endure the slaps, kicks, and punches that were thrown her way. She stopped talking to old friends and cut herself off from the world other than school. She quit ballet and threw out her childish dresses, becoming someone completely different.

She wasn't exactly known for being the friendliest, most energetic girl anymore. She was pretty much a loner. But  
she became accustomed to it. Always being the outcast, the forgotten one. She built up thick walls of snarky eloquence and witty insults. She tried to seem normal on the outside and hide the secrets that burrowed in the darkness of her soul.

Of course everyone noticed eventually. Nothing can stay hidden. But she spun lies so beautifully that it was almost impossible not to believe her. Nothing was wrong at home; her mom was just in a rough spot. The bruises were from falling down the stairs. She couldn't come over that weekend because her mom was taking her out. The scars on her arms weren't self-inflicted; she just tried to pick up a stray cat. The lies piled up quickly and she found herself drowning in them.

One day, her life completely changed. Her mom came home completely intoxicated, as usual. But this time was different. She told her daughter to go away and die somewhere so she had one less thing to deal with. So she went to the bathroom and swallowed every pill in the medicine cabinet, sick of living in this depressed state.

Darkness consumed her. She dreamed of times before her dad left and her mom went psycho. She dreamed of the happy innocence of her childhood. She thought her dreams were her life flashing before her eyes just before she would slip away into the kindness of death.

Two days later, she opened her eyes to the sharp stab of light.

Her principal called the cops after she didn't show up for school. Apparently her lies weren't as convincing as she thought. Her mother was arrested and sent to rehab. She was taken in by a foster family and put through therapy. Her scars eventually faded, but she was never the same. Shortly before she turned fourteen, they sent her to boarding school. She met new people and resolved to put it all behind her.

But her problems dogged her the whole time. Dyed hair, colored extensions, and dark makeup masked deep pain and longing for a past that no longer existed. Long sleeves hid the open cuts on her arms. She couldn't stand the fact that she was cutting again, but she just couldn't help it. It distracted her from the pain of reality.

And people notice her behavior. But they'll never ask. They don't want to know.


	3. Lost

She is lost.

She's not sure when it happened. It's almost like one day she woke up and realized she left herself far behind in the dust, and now she is struggling to get back.

Her life may seem perfectly okay. She goes to school, she smiles, she laughs, she jokes with her friends, she gets good grades, and she puts on airs of normalcy. But she is a master of deception and fools even the most perceptive people around her.

They all think she's just fine.

But she knows the truth. She's not fine. People who are fine aren't afraid of leaving the house every morning. People who are fine don't almost cry every time they look in the mirror. People who are fine don't hate themselves. People who are fine aren't afraid of attracting attention. And most importantly, people who are fine don't enjoy pressing a razor blade to the inside skin of their forearm.

Alas, she does.

The rosy beads of blood that gather along the thin slits fascinate her. They are an unreal crimson color that belongs more in fantasy than reality. The droplets slide down and mingle with each other, and then with the water from her shower after she raises the courage to put her arm under the harsh, hot blast.

She loves the way it stings. It brings her back to herself, even if just for a moment, and she can see everything clearly. She isn't lost anymore and she isn't a passenger to her own life. But the feeling doesn't last long and she craves it.

And that's why she just can't stop. Not even if it means wearing long sleeves all the time to hide the angry welts. Not even if she had to isolate herself from everyone to keep from blabbing her secret.

Not even if it kills her.


	4. The Red Journal

**Super-duper long drabble (I'm not even sure I can call this a drabble anymore). Just something I randomly thought up. Read and enjoy, and hopefully give me some feedback to help improve.**

I was gifted the red and gold journal the Christmas I was eight. My family was up in Kentucky like we always were, every other Christmas. There were some distant relatives there and they were the ones that gave me the journal. They had no idea what to give me, seeing as we had never met. They decided to stay safe and get something universal. I remember, at the time, I just smiled and said thank you, wishing that it was a regular book instead. I had always entertained the idea of documenting my thoughts, but had earlier decided it was a childish antic. When I returned home, I stowed the journal away in a tub in my closet, where it sat for almost two years.

Strangely, I did not dig out the red journal for the orthodox writing of thoughts. I was planning my eleventh birthday party and needed somewhere to write all my ideas down before I forgot them. I only used the first two pages before the party was scrapped. All of my friends but one were busy that weekend, so I ended up disappointed and alone on the eve of my birthday. Angrily, I buried the journal away in my crowded bookshelf.

This time, the journal's hibernation only lasted a month or two. My mother had forced me to clean out my room completely before my summer camp started. I found the journal behind a stack of books in the bottom shelf of my bookcase. I ripped the earlier pages out and threw them away, disgusted with my childish ravings. I left the book out on my nightstand, convinced I would find a use for it.

And that I did. One of my summer camp activities was a creative writing class. After camp ended, I was delirious with the idea that I would write a book. I frantically jotted down some ideas over the course of a few weeks. After that, I decided to share them with my then-best friend, Kalli. She took one look at them and promptly laughed, telling me that maybe writing wasn't my calling. It took everything I had not to start crying right then and there. I waited until I got home. Filled with fury, I immediately tore the pages out and shredded them. I holed myself away in my room for the entire weekend, convinced I was a failure at everything. That whole weekend is a blur of tears and self-loathing. I threw the journal deep into the abyss of my closet, never wanting to see it again.

My dramatics this time lasted only a few weeks. I was deathly afraid of starting sixth grade that fall. To me, starting at a new school when all of my friends were going to a different one represented the end of the world. Also, I'd heard all sorts of horror stories about middle school and how terrible it was. I used the journal as a crutch in the weeks up to the first day of school. I confided all my fears in that journal, pouring out every feeling I possessed.

I continued to write in the journal months into the school year. Sixth grade was the toughest year I'd ever encountered. Being painfully shy and unsure, my participation grades in all my classes were no higher than a low "C". Being an "A" student all my life, my parents immediately took action. They threatened everything I had and emailed all of my teachers. I remember the first six months of sixth grade as a whirlwind of emotions, full of being yelled at, feeling fear, and crying for hours when I got home from school. My parents tossed around the idea of taking me to a doctor to be evaluated for clinical depression, worried because my aunt on my mom's side had it and acted similarly to the way I was acting now. When I caught ear of this, I threw the mother of all fits. After days of crying and pleading, they realized making me do something against my will wouldn't help anything. So they dropped the issue.

It took almost the entire year, but I eventually adapted to school. However, my teenage hormones kicked in, causing me to get in constant arguments with my parents. The journal was my confidant through all the "I hate you"s and "I wish I'd never been born"s. I still remember one of the worst nights of my life during that time.

As usual, the afternoon started with a fight with my mom. However, this one escalated into full-out screaming. Finally, I yelled, "Fine! I'm leaving!" I packed a bag, making sure to include the red journal. I walked out my back door and made it almost a mile away from my house before I calmed down enough to think through everything. I slinked back home with my tail between my legs.

The fights with my parents continued for years, but quickly lessened in intensity. I weaned myself off that red journal until I stopped writing in it completely. I didn't pick it up again until the beginning of my sophomore year in high school.

When I (re) rediscovered the journal, I took the time to read through my previous entries. My earlier heartbreaks seemed petty now. I scoffed, tearing out the pages and throwing them carelessly away. I sounded like a whiny child throwing a temper tantrum in my entries, and I couldn't stand that. I was too old for that now.

I then used the journal to write down all the Italian words I was learning in anticipation for my first overseas trip. I only took up about a page and quickly lost interest. My red journal was left behind again for months, abandoned like an unwanted puppy.

I picked up the journal again about six months ago. Stress, anxiety, and a mixture of unwanted feelings pushed me to the edge of my sanity and I needed an outlet. I opened the journal and felt a rush of memories flood my mind. I ran my hand along the binding, feeling the place where all the ripped pages once belonged. I was filled with emotions the memories gave me. It surprised me how much an inanimate object could affect me.

This journal has been through a lot in my life. It has seen some of my very worst moments and once recorded them in its pages. It had been a loyal confidant when I felt completely alone in the world. I know that one day in the future, I will pick up that red journal once again and rely on it to listen to my ranting when no one else will.


	5. Beautiful, Talented, Inspirational Girl

There is a girl sitting at the lunch table in the far corner of the cafeteria, tucked away and ignored. She is reading a book, leaning down over the table in a way that causes her hair to fall over her shoulders and brush the table. It is a long curtain, hiding her face away from the few who might glance her way accidently. She is ignored mostly, though.

Her long, delicate fingers reach out to tuck her perfectly straight hair behind her ears. Her hand lingers over a strand, twisting it around her pointer finger before letting it fall behind her hunched shoulder. She is such a beautiful girl. Yet she is always alone. _Too bad no one told her how beautiful she was._

She is walking down the hallway, later. Aimless chatter and excitement fills the air. There is a football game tonight that she will not attend, even though she is supposed to. She is (was?) a cheerleader, before she withdrew from everyone and hid away behind a mask of makeup and silence. She was so good, too. Most of the cheerleaders can't even do a back handspring, but she was out doing full twists effortlessly. _Too bad no one told her how talented she was._

The cheerleaders were mostly rude bitches. But not her. She was so incredibly smart. Set to be valedictorian, her schedule was jam-packed with AP classes and after-school activities, before. She was such a genuinely good person too; she used to hang out with popular people and geeks alike and could always be found advocating for some good cause like feeding starving children in Africa. She inspired motivation in everyone and absolutely radiated goodness and light. _Too bad no one told her how inspirational she was._

The beautiful, talented, inspirational girl went home that night. She did all her homework and left it out in a pile on the kitchen table. She wrote letters to everyone she cared about and even some she didn't. She kissed her parents good night and told them how much she loved them. Then, blinking back tears, she went into her bedroom and swallowed every pill she had spent months gathering, just as the crowd at the football game was roaring over a goal.

The next morning, her parents found her in her bed, cold and stiff. Her eyes were open but not seeing, finally closed to the horrors of the world she so hated. They found scars and open cuts on her arms, staining the sheets red with cool blood. She was clenching a packet of letters, each individually addressed and containing an apology.

So many people showed up to her funeral, tears running like waterfalls down everyone's faces. They talked about how it wasn't possible such a perfect girl would be so unhappy. But she was. And nobody noticed.

_Too bad no one ever told her how much she meant to them…_


End file.
